


It's Been a Long, Long Time

by blown_transistor



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blown_transistor/pseuds/blown_transistor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dear Hawkeye," he read. "This isn't the Clark sister that you probably expected to hear from, so I apologize for that. You and I haven't spoken in a long time, but then again why would we?..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Kiss me once, then kiss me twice_

_Then kiss me once again._

_It’s been a long, long time._

_Haven’t felt like this, my dear_

_Since I can’t remember when._

_It’s been a long, long time._

**January 2013**

**Crabapple Cove, Maine**

 

Cradling his first and only grandchild (so far) to his chest, Henry Pierce led his two younger siblings down the stairs to the basement of the house they’d all grown up in. The pungent smell of mothballs caused him to stifle a cough in order not to wake the sleeping infant. “We can worry about what to do with all of this later,” he ordered with a whisper. “Let’s just make sure nothing’s leaking or anything while the kids are upstairs getting the food out.”

Marlene Pierce, the second child of Doctor Benjamin Franklin Pierce and Amelia Pierce, rolled the blue eyes she inherited from her father in her older brother’s direction and tossed him a mock salute behind his back. She’d followed his lead almost as solidly as she’d followed their parents’ all her life. However, _today_ didn’t exactly put her in the mood.

She carefully made her way around some disintegrating boxes and plopped down on the dated white sofa in front of the furnace. Running the palm of her hand over the veneered armrest, a sad smile crossed her face as her first memory of that sofa came to mind. Being only six years old, she didn’t comprehend the gravity of what was unfolding on the television in front of her. She remembered the mother they’d just buried hours earlier gripping the same side of the sofa and bursting into tears when Walter Cronkite confirmed that Kennedy had been assassinated.

Well if his sister wasn’t going to check things out like Henry commanded, neither was the youngest of the Pierce children – Daniel (better known as the second _Doctor_ Daniel Pierce). The only child to keep his mother’s straw colored hair past childhood bypassed the shelves and shelves of records, chests full of knitting that predated the moon missions, and prehistoric furniture. He only stopped when he found himself in the corner his father claimed for himself after family things started to cover the basement sometime in the mid-Sixties.

When he saw a puddle of water forming where the concrete floor met the carpet, his eyes widened. “Oh shit!” He threw the old crocheted blanket off the forbidden green chest closest to the puddle and moved the chest that still bore “CPT. B.F. PIERCE” on the lid up onto the nearest table.

“We have a leak,” Daniel stated, rubbing at his lower back when his brother trotted over. “Managed to save dad’s footlocker, though.”

After Henry thrust the baby into her arms, Marlene shushed her great-niece as she walked slowly toward her brothers. The brutes couldn’t even keep it down around an infant, despite all three of them having now-grown children of their own. “He’s going to come back and haunt you if you open that, and you both know it.”

Ignoring their former tattletale sister, the boys carefully lifted the sixty-three year old lid. The contents at the top of the footlocker seemed unharmed. Henry thrust his hand down through the old fatigues and trinkets to ensure water hadn’t seeped in. His fingers brushed against…paper and string? Confused, he grabbed the string and pulled the bundle to the surface. His eyes widened when he realized just what he held. He weakly motioned for Marlene and Daniel to join him on the white sofa. “Guys…look at the postmark dates,” he said in disbelief after looking at the oldest postmark.

“There has to be a hundred and fifty letters here,” Daniel commented. Snatching the bundle of letters, he flipped through them as he kept an eye on the return address. “T-They’re all from mom. ‘Miss A. Clark’. The address is the house where she, Uncle George, and Aunt Caroline grew up.”

Marlene stood up slowly and handed Baby Abbie back to her grandfather. Without an explanation, she dashed over to the old student desk by an empty curio cabinet, grabbed a parcel of almost equal size, and returned to the sofa. “I found these about thirty years ago when I was helping mom dig out baby stuff for your first one, Henry. I started to say something…until I realized they were from dad when he was in Korea.”

“I thought they didn’t get together until after the war,” Henry mused, beaming at the discovery they’d made.

“Should we…open one?”

“What happened to ‘dad’s going to come back and haunt you if you open that’, Marlene?” Daniel inquired sarcastically with a sing-song lilt to his voice. He feigned injury when she punched his arm.

“Let’s find the first one and go from there.” Knowing her parents and their meticulous nature, the letters were most likely in chronological order. She discovered the oldest letters in both piles were at the bottom, but the one at the bottom of her father’s stack was the oldest. Sliding the letter carefully out of its envelope, her bottom lip began to quiver at the sight of their mother’s handwriting.

Henry gently took the letter from his sister. “Dear Hawkeye,” he read. “This isn’t the Clark sister that you probably expected to hear from, so I apologize for that. You and I haven’t spoken in a long time, but then again why would we?...”

 


	2. Chapter One

_Now I know lonely nights_

_For all the while my heart is whispering_

_Some other harbor lights_

_Will steal your love from me…_

 

**August 1951  
Korea**

 

Hawkeye Pierce began to gently push open the package from his father with a deep yawn as he leaned back into his Army issue cot and pillow.

“Package from home?” a voice called from across the tent.

“Yeah, something from my dad **,** Beej,” he responded, sitting back up and continuing to pull apart the copious amounts of tape holding the brown box together in an effort to get to the content of the unexpected package. When he’d finally wrestled the top open, he found two smaller packages wrapped in brown paper resting beneath an envelope covered in unfamiliar but distinctly feminine handwriting. He set the box down on the other end of his cot before opening the letter.

 

_Dear Hawkeye,_

_This isn’t the_ _Clark_ _sister that you probably expected to hear from, so I apologize for that. You and I haven’t spoken in a long time, but then again why would we? I’m the kid sister of your school friends. I’m sure your father has told you that George is in Korea, too. I pray nothing happens to him, but if something does happen, I pray he winds up at your MASH unit. We’ve heard about your survival rate._

_Your father has been sharing some of your letters with us (hope you don’t mind). We’ve gotten similar ones from George concerning the weather. It broke Mom’s heart to think about her son and the boy he used to play with freezing in tents ten thousand miles from home._

_After years successfully avoiding the lessons, she finally taught me to knit when I moved back home after Dad died last year. I didn’t really want to learn, but anything to take her mind off of Dad helped. Anyway, I’m telling you all this because since Mom sent George more than he can handle in knitwear last winter. A pair of his gloves is a bit lopsided because it was my first attempt at a pair. She enlisted my help to knit more than you can handle in knitwear this year. Don’t worry, my technique has improved.  If you need more (somehow), just write. I’m sure between Mom and I, we can whip up something._

_I hope this package and the enclosed sweater, hat, gloves, and socks manage to find you before it gets cold. Stay safe (and warm), Hawkeye._

_Amelia Clark_

_ PS: _ _If this is the only thing you’ve opened, there is something from your father in this box, too. Since we were both sending you something, we combined shipments._

Folding up the letter, he slid it back into the envelope before lifting both brown packages from the box. The first one he opened was a stack of magazines and medical journals from his dad. He moved them to the side and gently peeled back the brown paper surrounding what was undoubtedly “more than he can handle in knitwear”.

“What’d ya get, Hawk?” BJ asked, voice full of mock childish wonder as he bounded across the tent.

Hawkeye didn’t respond as he gently unfolded the black wool sweater and found the three pairs of olive green socks that were tucked into the folds as well as a knitted cap and gloves made from the same color yarn as the socks. He ran his hands over the carefully crafted garments that would undoubtedly become godsends as the weather continued to turn colder in the coming weeks. Words failed the normally verbose man at the realization that he still meant something to the mother of one of his childhood friends and his kid sister. If he didn’t, they would have bought him the same items or not sent anything at all. But they didn’t buy them. They sat down and made them by hand, expertly winding thick strands of wool around needles for days and weeks.

“Ooh, your dad sent you some stylish winter wear,” he observed, plucking a sock away from his friend and examining it in the light.

“Dad sent the magazines.”

“Then who sent the duds?”

Still gently rubbing the immaculately executed and complicated stitch work, he let his thoughts wander. The last time he’d laid eyes on Amelia Clark, she’d gone by “Amy” and was seventeen years old. He was twenty-six. It was her brother’s wedding. Her sister was the matron of honor and Amy was a bridesmaid. He didn’t stay long into the reception. It was painful to watch her sister, who was heavily pregnant with her first child, dance with and dote on her husband. Amy asked him if he wanted to dance, and that was when he made his exit. After that, she’d gone off to college somewhere out of state. That was pretty much it…until now.

“Yoo hoo, Hawk!” BJ called, waving his arms. “Who sent the duds?”

Snatching the sock from his friend and tent-mate, Hawkeye reunited it with its mate and set the pile of knitwear almost reverently on top of his footlocker. “His next door neighbor and her daughter made them,” he answered before beginning the search for some paper and a pen.

 

* * *

 

**Two weeks later**

**Crabapple Cove, Maine**

 

Amelia Clark unlocked the door to the house she grew up in and stepped inside. She shed her heavy leather satchel containing papers to grade, purse, and sweater. “Mom, I’m home,” she called before releasing her long brown hair from the clip it’d been in all day while she taught dozens of unwilling pupils math.

“Dinner’s almost ready if you want to go wash up!” her mother called from the kitchen. “Oh, there’s a letter from Doctor Pierce’s boy for you. I put it on your bed.”

Looking up the stairs toward the door of the bedroom she’d had since childhood, she sighed. Once there was a time when the name Hawkeye Pierce would have made her swoon like women when Frank Sinatra walked in the room…or do something stupid like ask him to dance at a wedding. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. The only Clark sister that he’d ever shown any interest in was now married and the mother of four children under the age of ten.

The letter sitting on her bed was most likely a simple, courteous thank you letter for the winter care package she and her mother knitted for him. She made her way upstairs slowly. Retrieving the letter from her pillow, she sat down on the corner of the bed and began to read.

 

_Dear Amelia (do you not go by Amy anymore?),_

_Rest assured, the package reached me before it started getting colder. I don’t know what to say. I don’t think a simple “thank you” is sufficient, but know that you have possibly saved me from freezing. I’d try it all on now if I didn’t think I’d roast alive after ten seconds. Once it does get cold, I’m fairly sure that I will never take them off. If I ever get out of this place, I’ll try to repay the favor. I can’t think of anything that can make it up to you, so if you think of something let me know._

_As for the offer of more knitted things? I’d have to get a guard dog for my footlocker if I accepted that. One of my tent mates, BJ Hunnicut, is already salivating over the socks. He’s from California, so he isn’t built to withstand winters like we formidable Mainers._

_Your point about you not being the Clark sister I expected to hear from is only partially correct. The last time that I talked to Caroline was the last time that I talked to you, so I didn’t expect to hear from any Clark sisters. _

_It’s now a little late, but please accept my condolences about your dad. I wanted to come up for the funeral, but I couldn’t get away from the hospital. I wanted to be there for your family like your family was for Dad and I when my mom passed. (Not that you remember. You were only about three.)_

_I’d heard that you moved back to help your mom out. Dad said that you’ve got a job teaching. What were you doing before you moved back?_

Her face twisted in confusion when she noticed that the ink suddenly changed to pencil and most of the next few lines were written over the ring from the bottom of a coffee cup.

 

_I meant to get this letter in the mail the day I received your package, but we had a sudden influx of wounded. It’s an occupational hazard in this line of work I like to call “meatball surgery”. I just finished thirty-six hours of surgery. Every joint in my body hurts, and I’m running on about three hours of sleep combined with enough coffee to jumpstart a tank. So I want to sleep but can’t._

_There was more I wanted to say, but the mail is going to run soon. It already takes long enough for letters to get back to the States. May I write you again, or is there someone who might object to that?_

_Give my best and my thanks to your mother. You two might have saved me this winter._

_Hawkeye_

 

Amelia fell backward onto the bed. She rubbed her thumb over the rough edges of the notepaper. He’d said more to her in that one letter than in years of living next door to each other. Pushing herself back up into a sitting position, she rummaged through her nightstand drawer until she found a pad of paper and an ink pen for her reply.Could that childhood crush be coming back?

* * *

**September 1951  
Korea**

Hawkeye flopped down onto his bunk, happy to finally be able to lay down after more surgery than sleep…again. Repositioning himself on the uncomfortable canvas “bed”, he stopped suddenly when he heard a crinkle. He reached down and produced the letter that had been trapped between himself and the canvas. He opened the letter with a wide smile. The letter reeked so much of civilian life, he could almost hear the sounds of Helen Forrest singing “I Had the Craziest Dream” on his father’s radio.

 

_Hawkeye (or do you go by “Doctor Pierce” in Korea?),_

_I do still go by Amy when the occasion calls for it. The only people who call me Amy now though are my family…and your dad. I suppose I could make an exception for you, being as how you’ll soon be wearing the sweater and socks that I made. If that doesn’t constitute familiarity, I don’t know what does._

_And no, no one would object to you writing me. I spend my days with children. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for my social calendar. My summers are usually spent in the company of a good book and new lesson plans._

_Thank you for your condolences about Dad. It’s been a bit of a struggle with Mom. She’d had trouble getting around and with her heart since before he passed, but none of us kids felt right with her living alone. And as the only unmarried child, it was easiest for me to be the one to relocate. Before I moved back to Crabapple Cove, I was teaching in Bangor._

_I’ve never had anyone offer to repay me for knitted items before. I asked Mom, and she hasn’t either. She said that you should take me out to dinner. I wouldn’t recommend that. I’m not the best conversationalist. It comes from all those aforementioned children. And at this point, I’m certain she’s trying to foist me off on the first single male that will have me. She’s convinced she doesn’t need me here._

_I hated tents as a Girl Scout. I can’t imagine being forced to sleep in one for more than a night or two. Do I need to make socks for the rest of your bunkmates to keep the peace? I don’t have time for homicide because someone stole them from you. I’m sure my students wouldn’t mind me running off to Korea to avenge a pair of socks…_

_Too bad the Army isn’t paying you by the hour. You’d come home a millionaire, and I’d never get paid back for the knitting. (Please note the sarcasm.) How you’re able to still stand is beyond me. I get my public service gene from whatever side of the family can get away withonly donating blood. _

_Please let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you, Hawkeye. With the distance I know there isn’t much I can do to help, but I’d like to do what I can._

_Well, my students are coming back in from recess. Stay safe. Mom and I are praying for you and George._

_Amy Clark_

Staring up at the olive drab ceiling of the tent from his bed, he let the letter fall to his chest. The notepaper held a hint of floral perfume; hers, he presumed. He hadn’t seen Amy Clark in years and had about as much interest in her then as Frank Burns, but she was quickly turning into one of his favorite people. And it wasn’t just because of the knitwear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song on the playlist for this chapter is Guy Lombardo's "Harbor Lights".


	3. Chapter Two

** Chapter Two **

_I'll always be near you wherever you are each night_  
 _In every prayer_  
 _If you call I'll hear you, no matter how far_  
 _Just close your eyes and I'll be there_  
  
_Please walk alone,_  
 _And send your love and your kisses to guide me_  
 _Till you're walking beside me, I'll walk alone_  
 _I'll walk alone…_  


 

**October 1951**

**Korea**

 

Pulling the soft black sweater over his head, Hawkeye settled into the canvas chair beside his cot. He produced a pad of paper and pencil from his footlocker.

 

_Amy,_

_I’d say you being the first baby I ever held when I was eight or nine trumps familiarity by knitting. That, and you asked me to dance at George’s wedding. Whether you like it or not, I’m calling you Amy._

_There are never enough books here. Sure, a family member will send one of the surgeons some medical publications, but one’s eyes cross from reading one too many of those. In the absence of a novel to fight over, we’ll re-read year old_ National Geographic. _Please don’t take that as an invitation to send a library. I’ve seen people rip paperbacks apart just so they can start while someone else finishes. It’s all extremes, this little corner of Korea. Either we are in for two straight days of surgery or a week of nothing to do except throw playing cards in bedpans. Or at each other._

_I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s health. I trust Dad’s still taking care of her?_

_An actual dinner that isn’t the World War Two surplus we get here would be magnificent. I might just take you somewhere so it doesn’t look like I’m gorging myself alone. That, and I haven’t seen you in over six years. Who knows? Maybe we have something to talk about now._

_I’m sure your mother’s just being independent. I can’t imagine what Dad would do if I had to move back in with him because of his health. Between his obstinate nature and your mother, I have no doubt he would be pressuring me to invite you for dinner, too._

Just as he was about to begin a new paragraph with “When I get out of here, I swear to god I’m never sleeping in a tent again”, the dreaded announcement of more wounded coming in came over the P.A. system. He dropped the pad and pencil onto the cot with an exasperated sigh. Hawkeye swore under his breath and pulled the heaven-sent knitted green hat down over his ears. Exiting the tent with BJ in tow, he began to assess the wounded being pulled from the ambulance. After a few patients, the doctor that’d seen almost everything stopped in his tracks. “Oh god. Oh no,” he whispered. He couldn’t catch his breath. He fisted a hand in the top of his hat and bit his lip. Kneeling next to the stretcher, he read the tag attached to the unconscious soldier in his Class A’s. “This one first. I’m taking him personally. Maybe I can save the leg.”

* * *

 

An eternity later, BJ _finally_ exited the operating room. He pulled off his mask, gown, and cap. Ready for a nap, he shuffled like Boris Karloff as The Mummy toward the laundry basket. He stopped when he heard crying from the other side of the curtain. He silently peered around and saw the normally unflappable Hawkeye to be the source of the sound. “H-Hawkeye?”

The other man stood up quickly from his position on the bench, quickly hiding the green knit cap and used the sleeve of his tee shirt to wipe his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I…” When his tent-mate looked at him skeptically, he brought the cap out of hiding. “The first patient I took, the leg I couldn’t save?”

BJ nodded and threw the surgical garb into the laundry basket. “So you couldn’t save the leg. How many times has that happened?”

“Too many, but this… This one I’ll never…” He tossed the cap to BJ. “I said my dad’s neighbor and her daughter made those knitted things? That patient, George Clark, is their son and brother, respectively. I grew up next door to him. W-We played together. His other sister was my first crush. She didn’t agree, but…”

“…And you just had to cut off his leg. It’s horrible, Hawk, but you saved your friend’s life.”

“It’s the second time a friend of mine hasn’t made it out of here whole.” Hawkeye snatched the cap back and stormed out of the building. He shivered the entire way to The Swamp. He silently prayed that Amy Clark would forgive him for what he was about to do as he pulled the two still clean pairs of handmade socks from his footlocker and his unfinished letter from his cot. He marched back over to Klinger’s office. “I need to place a call to the States.”

“Sir, it’s,” he paused to check his watch “2:30 in the afternoon there. And it’s 3:30 in the morning here. I just want to go to sleep.”

“Use these one at a time. It may take more than one call.”

After an hour and a pair of socks, the call to George Clark’s wife resulted in no one being home. Hawkeye checked the date on Radar’s calendar…and gave him the number of his friend’s childhood home.

“Hello? This is M*A*S*H 4077th. Stand by for Captain Pierce,” Klinger hurried, passing the phone to Hawkeye.

“Hello?”

“ _Hawkeye? Is that you?_ ”

“It’s me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is this Amy?”

“ _It is. It’s Saturday. Mom’s at the beauty parlor. Mom’s going to die at the long distance charge, but I’m happy to hear your voice._ ”

He exhaled slowly. “I tried to call your sister-in-law, but she wasn’t at home. It’s about George. He was hurt.”

“ _Oh my god, is he alright? What do you know?_ ”

“He was brought to my unit, Amy. I operated, but his jeep rolled over. His left leg was trapped underneath it for too long. I…I couldn’t save his leg, but I saved him. He’s resting now, and he’ll be coming home as soon as he’s well enough.” He almost broke down again at the sounds of the sobs coming over the tenuous telephone connection.

“ _Thank you. There’s no one else he’d want to operate on him._ ”

“Tell his wife I called? I couldn’t let your family be notified by telegram.”

“ _I will. And thank you. I don’t know how we can repay you._ ”

“I think this makes us even.” Hawkeye watched as Klinger put the pairs of socks into his own footlocker to give as bribes to Sparky for placing the two calls. “Maybe another pair or two of socks if you’re feeling crafty? I had to trade both pairs to get the phone calls.”

“ _I’ll leave as soon as we disconnect to get the yarn. Anything for you._ ”

“Thanks, Amy. I’m sorry about the circumstances, but it’s good to hear your voice.”

Klinger tapped his watch. “It’s almost time.”

“Listen, Amy, I have to get off the line. George is going to be fine. I’ll write as soon as I can.”

“ _I’ll let Mom know as soon as she’s back. I’ll drive over to Cynthia’s house as soon as I…_ ”

“Amelia? Amy?” he inquired to sadly empty air. Hanging up the phone, he turned to Klinger. “Sorry to keep you awake.” He headed into post-op, grabbing a chair from the corner and set it down next to George Clark’s bed. Sinking tiredly into the uncomfortable chair, he tapped his pencil against the paper a few times before continuing the letter.

 

_I was about to swear that whenever I get out of here I’ll never sleep in a tent again as long as I live, but we all got called into surgery. Suddenly that doesn’t seem relevant anymore. It’s just after 3:30 in the morning here, Amy. I just got off the phone with you, and I’m working on this letter from George’s bedside in post-op. I feel absolutely sick that I couldn’t do more than amputate. I could bore you with all the medical reasons why, but that wouldn’t help anyone._

_What makes me sicker is just how much of a waste this entire little police action is. George is the second friend of mine to come through here, you know. He’s also the second friend of mine not to make it out of here better than when he came in. I don’t know how well you knew Tommy Gillis (he was the same age as George and I). He got sent over here, too. He dropped by for a visit one day, and we joked around like we’d never spent a day apart. Then a few day later, he came through here…and didn’t make it out at all._

_There’s so much death and destruction here, and sadly it’s the best medical learning experience I’ve had since med school. I desperately wish that wasn’t the case. I’m so tired of this. Hell, I sent a telegram to Truman once. I got into a world of trouble, but it felt so good._

His eyelids began to droop closed. Finally, he stuck his pencil in the pocket of his lab coat and let his head rest against the wall as he fell asleep. He’d known his friend too long to not be there when he woke up.

 

Hawkeye jerked awake when he felt a hand on his knee. He swallowed hard. The conversation he was dreading was upon him.

“I’ve been told you’ve been sitting there for a while,” George began weakly.

“How are you feeling, George?”

“Absolutely lousy. I’m sure you’ll be hearing about my treatment in a future letter from Amy.” He looked up at his lifelong friend with a knowing glare. “Did you think Mom wouldn’t tell me you two have been corresponding? Plus, I saw her name on the letter in your lap. You know if you break her heart…”

Sitting up straight, Hawkeye looked down at his friend and laughed. “You’re the one in the hospital bed, and you’re threatening me?”

“Hey, as her big brother, it’s my job to threaten.”

“George Clark, I am not currently nor have I ever been Amy’s boyfriend.” He leaned down with a hand on his thigh to continue his statement with emphasis…only to immediately sit up straight and rolled his eyes. “I stayed the night in this crummy chair to have an important talk with you when you woke up, and this was not the talk I planned on having.”

“I peeked, Hawk, he admitted solemnly. “You had to take my leg.”

“I’m supposed to be the one to tell you that. I…I couldn’t let your family be notified by telegram, George. I tried your wife, but she wasn’t answering. I did get a call to your mother’s house.” When his friend let out a sigh of relief, he nervously fingered the pencil in the pocket of his lab coat. “Your family knows. And they know to expect you.”

He sat up in the bed as best he could and rubbed his left thigh absentmindedly. “Well, looks like Cyn will be getting that Lincoln with the Hydra-Matic transmission after all. I won’t be doing much shifting without the leg to use the clutch.” He shook his head with a grin. “At least with one of those, she can’t roll down a hill because she was fiddling with the radio.”

“A mechanic’s delight, that one.”

“No kidding.”

The conversation trailed off, and Hawkeye rubbed at the corners of his eyes. “Listen, the nurses are going to come through and do their rounds. I’m going to try to hold down some breakfast and sleep horizontally. I’ll be back to check on you later.” At his friend’s nod, he pushed himself out of the chair and sleepily mad his way into the early morning light.

The smell emanating from the mess tent was almost enough to turn his stomach even further. Clutching his notepad and pencil to his chest, he changed directions to head back to The Swamp. He laid down on his stomach, propped himself up with one elbow, and continued the letter he’d been trying to write for hours.

 

_You join me during what is breakfast, but given everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours, I can’t bring myself to eat. That, and I smelled breakfast after I sat with George a while. I can’t eat that right now. _

_Speaking of George, he’s awake now. I slept in a chair for a few hours until he and I both woke up. He’s taking this well so far, but do me a favor? Keep an eye on him when he gets home, you and Cynthia both. Reality will set in eventually, and I want to make sure he’s okay. When he’s well enough to leave here in a few days, he will be taken to Seoul and then to Tokyo General. He could be home in time for Thanksgiving, assuming no complications. Definitely for Christmas._

_I didn’t set out to write this whole letter pretty much about your brother or this stupid war (that they won’t call a damn war). I’m sorry. Hopefully the next letter you get from me will have some good news in it, or at least something cheerful. Every once in a while, this place isn’t hell for a few hours._

_Yours,_

_Hawkeye_


	4. Chapter Three

 

**November 1951**

**Korea**

_ Doctor, _

_ My brother was a soldier in Korea. He got hurt, but some doctors fixed him up so he could go back and fight some more. Then he got killed. Now I’ll never see Keith again. You doctors just make people better so they can end up dead. I hate you all. _

_ Signed, _

_ Ronnie Hawkins _

* * *

 

_ Ronnie, _

_ It’s not a good idea to take the love you had for your brother and turn it into hate. Hate makes war, and war is what killed him. I understand your feelings. Sometimes I hate myself for being here. But once in awhile in the midst of all this insanity, a very small event can make my being here seem almost bearable. I’m sorry I don’t have an answer for you, Ronnie, except to suggest you look for good wherever you can find it. _

_ Dr. Benjamin Pierce _

* * *

 

Pulling the parcel from Hawkeye out of her teaching bag while her charges were at recess, Amy smiled from her perch on the playground bench. Between the thick hat, scarf, gloves, red pea coat, and her heavy mug of hot tea, she was barely managing not to shiver at the biting cold. The children didn’t seem to mind so much as they self-divided into teams and began building snow forts out of the few inches of accumulation. 

She slipped the top letter out of the bundle, as it was addressed to her, and opened it. 

 

_ Amy, _

_ While your little letter package provided relief from the rain-soaked boredom around here, it also made me stop and think. A lot. I didn’t know one of your students, Ronnie Hawkins, lost a brother over here. And I didn’t know when I made the “no trading letters rule” after we divvied them up that I’d have to answer his. _

 

She unfolded the note inside the letter, her heart breaking when she read it. Amy hadn’t read any of the messages from her students before they sealed the envelopes. Now she wished she had. 

 

_ I had no idea what to say to him, Amy. I tried to start a response so many times, but none of them were ever right. I know they say “out of the mouths of babes” and all, but I never thought a fourth grader could make me feel lower than dirt. I never expected a ten year old to insinuate that I’m just another large cog in the war machine. I tried to pawn the letter off on our camp priest (in defiance of my own rules), but he enforced the aforementioned rule with an artful “physician, heal thyself”. _

_ I finally found a way to respond to him. I didn’t have a good answer for him, and for that, I apologize to you as well as him. If he doesn’t understand, I need you to help him as best as you can. I intentionally didn’t seal my response so you could read it before he does. _

_ I can’t stand the thought of this kid being consumed by this hate. I couldn’t live with myself if he spent the rest of his life in Crabapple Cove (or wherever he ends up) hating doctors in general, not just me. _

_ Not all of the letters were doom and gloom, though. One of your kids wrote a five page letter and didn’t say a damn thing. You have a future senator on your hands in that one. Maybe even a President. _

_ Anyway, thanks for thinking of us here. If you keep doing all these nice things for me, I’m going to start believing that you actually like me or something. _

_ How is George holding up? He must be home by now. He was holding up almost too well when I saw him last. He just made a joke about Cynthia finally having a reason to get a car with an automatic transmission. _

_ Send my love to everyone, and keep my gratitude for yourself.  I hope your students enjoy the letters. _

_ I’ll write again as soon as I can. _

_ Yours, _

_ Hawkeye _

* * *

 

Practically snatching the letter out of Klinger’s hand, Hawkeye reclined on his cot. In the weeks before Christmas (well, anytime at all, but…), anything was a present. With a contented sigh, he ripped open the envelope. He inhaled the traces of her perfume left from her wrist rubbing the paper, unfolded the letter… and was met with two photographs to the chest. He laid the letter face-down and held the first picture up. 

He instantly recognized George, his mother, his sister Caroline...and Amy. Her hair was a lighter blonde than he remembered, but it was definitely her. She wasn’t the teenager he remembered from her brother’s wedding. Skimming the letter, he realized she was twenty-four. And grown. Her smile went all the way to her hairline and included her beautiful light eyes. 

The four of them stood in front of the fireplace at her parents’ house; the house where he’d played with George as a child. They held a handmade sign between them which read “THANK YOU HAWKEYE! WE MISS YOU!” in large block letters -- a sign they had made especially for him. When the realization washed over him, he came down with an acute case of butterfly-itis. And only part of that involved the fact that Amy sported a tight (presumably handmade) sweater.

Tucking the first picture back into the envelope, he smiled genuinely for the first time in days. There was no way that Amy’s super-conservative mother knew this second picture was included. Her long, blonde curls that were bound into an updo in the previous picture were loose around her shoulders in this one. While her hair was mostly tucked behind her ears that sported simple pearl stud earrings, one ringlet on the left side of her face fell free. She held a completed sock in her right hand and a second sock, completed until just after the heel, in her left hand. 

If there was ever a facial expression that was both apologetic and flirtatious, this was it. Hawkeye prayed the addition of ink dark eyeliner and (what he hoped was) crimson lipstick to her previously plain face was for his benefit. If it was meant to be a morale boost, it was certainly working. 

Just as his brain began to fantasize about what she might have under that sweater, he slid the second picture to join the first. His mind was still reeling from his Swedish-themed lesson in feminism from a few months earlier. 

_ “You think a woman is dead until she lives for you. _ ”

Margaret’s words echoed in his head as he took in the two pictures side by side. Could she possibly… No. Maybe Amy was flirting. Maybe she was just...what did it matter? He was older than her by a decade. She wasn’t doing anything more than what  Life magazine suggested. The “keep on and carry on” mantra that Winston Churchill’s government championed less than a decade earlier came to mind. 

Hawkeye sighed and began to read the letter.

 

_ Hawkeye, _

 

_ I probably should have read the letters before I sent them. Ronnie got the news about a week before he wrote the letter. In hindsight, I should have known that he would have written about it.  I’m sorry.  _

_ The kid you postulated would be a future senator? You’re not wrong. He tries to filibuster me all the time when I give homework. Bet you $5 that he’s at least a state senator before he’s thirty.  _

 

He sniggered.  _ Of course, the teacher would have noticed. _

 

_ I wouldn’t have volunteered for the knitwear making if I didn’t like you, Hawkeye. I always have. Besides, you helped George. It’s the least I can do. Speaking of knitwear, I’m almost done with your replacement socks. I’ve got one completely done. The other is about three-quarters done. If I hunker down this weekend, I should be able to finish them. Knowing the speed at which letters and parcels travel, hopefully you’ll have them by next July.  _

_ George missed Thanksgiving by two days, much to Mom’s disappointment. As far as how he’s doing? Cynthia’s keeping him close by, understandably. He and I haven’t talked much. He did give me a stern talking to about the fact that we’re corresponding. Honestly… I’m twenty-four. I can write letters to anyone I please.  _

_ I will keep your gratitude for myself, as you wish. My students enjoy their new pen pals. _

_ Look for a big Christmas package soon. You’re taking me out for a drink the minute you get home...  _

_...And somehow also compensating half the women in Crabapple Cove. See...Mom and I aren’t the only knitters in this town. Cynthia’s been telling everyone in her book club about how you saved George. There are a group of about ten married women that might jump you the second you get back here. (I’ll just stand in the back, laughing, until they’re done with you. After all, what are friends for?) At this point, you could probably make a fortune auctioning off all this stuff.  _

_ I’m taking a break from putting up Christmas decorations by writing this. Mom’s trying to help, but… Her health isn’t so good, especially after Dad died. I mean, that’s why I’m living at home and teaching. And knitting. Your dad’s doing what he can, but I’m not stupid like my siblings. There’s going to come a day when your father and I can’t handle her, which is something my siblings won’t admit. They aren’t here when she forgets that Truman is the President, not Wilson. _

_ There’s nothing you can do, but… I don’t know why I’m putting this on you. I’m sorry. I’m just so frustrated. Like Tennyson famously said: “Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die…” I feel like I’m facing a firing squad here. I either give up my career completely to take care of my mother because no one else will (at some point), or she gets professional help. Bless him, your father has backed every decision I’ve brought to the rest of my family. (He has a separate I.O.U. file on me at this point.) Your father is a saint.  _

_ George is home. Hopefully you’re coming shortly behind him.  _

_ Au revoir,  mon ami.  _

_ Amy _

 

Hawkeye folded the letter and ran his hand through his hair. Amy wasn’t his only update in regards to her mother’s condition. He’d been writing his dad. Clearly, Amy was in for the long haul with no substantial help apart from his father. He’d been reading up on his medical journals. His friend’s mother? Between the two accounts he was getting, his friend’s mother most likely she most likely had what they were calling  _ dementia praecox _ , according to his medical journals. She’d soon most likely go from forgetting things and balance problems to not being able to function outside her own home (in the middle stages) to needing round-the-clock care and not recognizing her own children. 

His heart broke at the thought of what would happen to his almost-second mother, Amy, George, and Caroline’s actual mother, as time progressed…

...only his thoughts were interrupted, yet again, by “ _ Attention! Attention! All personnel! Incoming wounded! _ ” 

He’d have to compose his thoughts later.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh holy lord, it's been over a year since I've updated this. I'm so, so sorry. Life and all.
> 
> Playlist is here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjgjKHy4ofeBMWM7B2KIksAcyQDzE8AHv 
> 
> The song for this chapter is Leslie Gore's "You Don't Own Me".

 

_ I don’t tell you what to say _ __   
_ Oh, don’t tell you what to do _ __   
_ So just let me be myself _ __   
_ That’s all I ask of you _ __   
_ I’m young and I love to be young _ __   
_ I’m free and I love to be free _ _   
_ __ To live...

 

**December 1951**

 

_ Hawkeye, _

 

_ I just had to fake-cough my way into the hallway to hide my laughter from my students taking their math test. You blew up a Washington Monument of  _ _ tongue depressors _ _ with names on them? “A monument to stupidity”? That’s...wow. I wish I could have seen it. I appreciate why you blew it up. I would have blown it up, too, if they wanted to use it for recruitment.  _

_ If you keep pulling stunts that my mother would disapprove of, I don’t know if I can continue to hide the fact that I approve of each and every one of them. I mean, I keep the paper confirming my status as a registered Democrat in a place where the rest of my family would never think to look for fear they’d burn it. _

_ The sooner you’re back, the better. The second this conflict is over… I’m worried, Hawkeye. The most rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my life was take money from Mom’s purse to go see a movie. It was 1940. I was twelve. Mom wouldn’t take me to see  _ _ Rebecca _ _. This McCarthy clown isn’t going to go away. I’m scared of what mass paranoia is going to come out of this.  _

_ Recently, I was at a party. The usual suspects (plus a few you haven’t met) were in attendance. As if by design, the gathering breaks off into the time-honored tradition of the men retiring with their cigars and brandy while the women  _ _ finally _ _ can get down to their agenda. The agenda, of course, consists of: P.T.A. meetings (no room for the schoolteacher to speak), the community fair, the church roof, and how we should all be grocery shopping in Brunswick because Mister Smythe might be a communist.  _

_ I excused myself from this conversation to  _ ~~_ keep myself from saying something I’d regret in front of the hen gathering _ ~~ _ get another glass of wine. Found myself in the company of the aforementioned menfolk. Glass of wine in hand, I nudged in on the conversation. I don’t often defend Harry Truman. I wasn’t really trying to on this occasion. All I said was that I agreed with the President that the Hiss trial was meant to distract from something beyond this witch-hunt. A classmate of yours from high school who shall remain nameless took my left hand, ogled my bare knuckles, and said: “What you need is a husband, and you won’t have those opinions anymore. He’ll put a stop to that”. _

_ I don’t know if you caught the  _ _ Time _ _ article that named my generation (born in the vague mid-to-late Twenties) as “The Silent Generation”.  As the article goes, it calls students “docile notetakers”. It says that the style of the writer of my generation “sometimes turns out to be nothing more than a byproduct of his neuroses”. It says that we want “a kind of suburban idyll”. As you’re nine years older than me, I can only imagine what you think of me and what I want. I detest generational labels because people that’ve read this article presume to know me based on my age, not my opinions and experiences. I’d rather be a spinster schoolteacher than have to muzzle myself. _

_ Oh, I should probably say… By “recently”, I meant “last Saturday night”. I started this letter during their test and am finishing it by the fire with a bottle of merlot. Most of this letter is the result of me angrily drinking and venting to you ten thousand miles away.  _

_ Anyway… I’m sorry. I meant for this letter to be happier. After all, Christmas is two weeks away as I write this. I’m now off until after New Year’s. I’d be happy about this under any other circumstances, but Mom is still...herself. And I’m home with her full time… _

_...Happy. Yes. Christmas. This letter was supposed to be happy. I wish I could be happier, but that’s really not in the cards. _

_ I must confess that I check the mail now with a bit of a skip in my step nowadays. Letters from you are really the only thing I look forward to being in the box now. Everything that comes in the mail is either a bill or someone that doesn’t really want to talk to me. I’m admittedly a bit let down when there isn’t mail from you…  _

_ Please come home soon, Hawkeye. I’m beginning to realize that you’re the key to my sanity. _

_ Merry Christmas, Hawkeye. _

~~_ Keep calm and carry on, _ ~~

_ All of my love, _

 

_ Amy _

 

_ P.S.: Your replacement socks are enclosed. This probably should have been a more important part of this letter. Looking back, it  _ _ definitely _ _ needed to be.  _

 

“Huh, what?” Hawkeye sputtered when the sound of Hunnicutt’s fingers snapping across the tent snapped him out of his own thoughts.

“I was just asking if you were okay, Hawk. You were off in outer space there. Anything off on the homefront?”

After a minute of silent deliberation, he handed the letter to his tentmate. “Have you found the problem?” he asked when BJ returned the paper. 

“A woman out of place at a cocktail party?”

“‘All of my love, Amy’,” he quoted. “I don’t even know what to say to that. I haven’t seen her in years, and…”

“And you want to know what ‘all of my love’ means.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

The only married one in the tent sat down on his bunk facing his friend. “ _ I  _ would, yes. But I find myself equally puzzled as to why this is bothering you.”

“This isn’t some… Beej, I was playing with her brother when they brought her home from the hospital. I pushed her in the creek when she was seven.”

“So do you want her to have a crush on you or not?”

“If she knows what’s good for her, she won’t.”

“Still not what I asked!” He rolled his eyes when, yet again, his train of thought was interrupted by the intercom announcing new wounded.

* * *

_ Amy, _

 

_ By the time you get this, it’ll be 1952. Time drags on and flies at the same time here in hell.  _

_ Your last letter was a tough one to respond to on several levels. The easiest part was the tongue depressors. I’ll stop that kind of thing when they agree to end this insanity. And Colonel Potter is an amateur painter. He’s gifted me a painting of me standing next to the tower. I’ll bring it home for you. For now, it’s my own reminder. _

_ I’ll take your liberal sympathies in stride. I might dedicate my next stunt to you. I could always take up glass blowing and make a statue of Susan B. Anthony…  _

_ As far as the cocktail party… I wish I could have been there to defend you. And I wish I could say the reasons behind that weren’t directly related to lessons I’ve learned the hard way over here. Remind me to tell you the stories of my Swedish-flavored dressing-down one day. I’ve had many hard lessons in just how little the modern woman needs the male of the species. _

_ I should warn you, before you go promising all your love to someone… I’m not the person you want to honestly give that to. I’m flattered. You’re what, twenty-three? I can’t let you throw your affection away on someone like me, much less check the mail with a spring in your step. _

 

_ Hawkeye _

 

_ PS: The socks did indeed arrive. I feel warmer by merely looking at them. I feel that my previous commentary has tainted my appreciation of the socks. It wasn’t my intention. If it has, please feel free to discontinue textile production immediately.  _

* * *

“You’ve been staring at that letter for weeks now, Hawk. Any answers pop out at you yet?”

Dropping the last letter from Amy onto the table containing the still, Hawkeye shook his head, “And I haven’t heard from her, either.”

“Unsurprising, given the speed letters arrive…”

“Mail call!” Klinger announced, swinging the door to the tent open. He tossed Winchester’s mail onto his bed. “Some mail for Hunnicutt. And something with a...Miami postmark for Pierce?”

He snatched the thicker envelope from the clerk and ripped the envelope open. It was Amy’s handwriting, but Miami? The other voices in the tent faded away as he began to read.

 

_ Hawkeye, _

 

_ Greetings from sunny Miami! Holly, a girlfriend from college, moved here after getting married. She invited me down for a week to escape the Maine winter gloom. I asked if her husband would terribly mind the intrusion of a guest he met once (at his wedding) this close to the holidays, and was met with hysterical laughter. And I quote: “He’s glad I’m inviting you. If I’m out showing you the sights, I can’t complain that he’s playing golf.” So, that’s how I’m responding to the letter I received from you four days before I flew down right now...sitting poolside with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. _

_ I’m so glad to know that almost a month on you would have ostensibly spoken up for me at a party. I’d like to meet the person that taught you these lessons. I’d shake her hand. Then, I’d give you pen and paper and continue your education. But that’s something more than a letter can address. _

_ In regards to the socks… You traded away the ones Mom and I initially sent for a phone call. Naturally, I was obligated to replace them for you since the phone call involved my brother’s well-being. As I understand it, you owe me a drink now.  _

_ The rest of the statements in your letter are why it took me so long to respond. I didn’t know what to say. If I offer any refutation of the last paragraph before your signature, you’ll dismiss me as naive (and young as you pointed out). When I signed my previous letter “all of my love”, it was meant to convey my most ardent support to someone that I’ve grown in the last several months to see as a friend. I’ve told you things in letters that no one else knows. Holly doesn’t know the party story.  _

_ I offer a few words of encouragement to someone I feel I’ve finally become closer to and get a slap in the face for my troubles. You said just two months ago that we might actually have something to talk about all of these years. _

_ As far as giving my love to you? You cured me of that at seventeen. When you wrote back after receiving the socks, I’ll admit that I was worried that my teenage crush on you was going to come back. My fears proved true for a time, but now you’ve cured me yet again. I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor. There’s probably an article in the  _ _ New England Journal of Medicine _ _ for you in this. After all, you found the cure for love. _

 

_ Amy _

 

He jumped up from his bunk and grabbed the exiting Klinger by the arm. “I need to make a phone call.”

“Stateside isn’t gonna happen today, Captain. Orders from above.”

“Telegram then.”

“That I can do.” He grinned. “As soon as I finish delivering the mail.”

“Now would be better.” When his friend started walking in the direction of Margaret’s tent, Hawkeye grabbed him again and held up the letter with his other hand. “Judging by the date on the postmark, she’s back in Maine and thinks that I… It’s important, Klinger.”

* * *

  
“Telegram for Amelia Clark?” the young man inquired after the door in front of him opened. 

“That’s me,” Amy answered skeptically. She opened the envelope after the messenger left.

 

_ You misunderstand me. STOP  _

_ Wasn’t meant to be a slap. STOP  _

_ Have determined you’re key to sanity here. STOP _

_ Letter to follow. STOP _

_ All of my love Hawkeye. STOP _

 

She sat down on the landing of the stairwell just inside the door and reread the telegram...with a relieved smile. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've finally done it. I've written for M*A*S*H, my oldest fandom. 
> 
> if the name "Amy Clark" rings a bell, that's because she's Hawkeye's teacher friend in Maine that has her class write letters to the camp. So, she's not TECHNICALLY an OC, but other than the fact that she is a 4th grade teacher in Crabapple Cove, I've made everything else about her up. 
> 
> As always, I've made a playlist for this story: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjgjKHy4ofeBMWM7B2KIksAcyQDzE8AHv


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